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<title>06. 18. '20. 05:17pm by iirusu</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24798817">06. 18. '20. 05:17pm</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/iirusu/pseuds/iirusu'>iirusu</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Where the Geese Fly and Bulls Cry [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anxiety, Blood, Blood Loss, Crying, Death in a dream or whatever you wanna interpret it as, I disgusted myself writing about veins i have the worst carpophobia, No Dialogue, POV First Person, Really brief mention of dissociation, Set in Colorado, Set in a dream, Stuff with veins but its brief, Trauma but its hinted and only makes sense with the context of other works in this series, like go in order, probably should read other works in this series before this one, thank you</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:29:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>975</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24798817</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/iirusu/pseuds/iirusu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't rare, to have a dream without you. They just usually don't happen like this.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Where the Geese Fly and Bulls Cry [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785916</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>06. 18. '20. 05:17pm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>⌦ TW there's descriptions of blood and mentions of veins in here so please be careful!! ⌫</p><p>what warranted this? a broken glass and a plate of cupcakes<br/>thank you for reading</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I’m feeling restless, and there are countless thoughts occupying my head at one time. I know I can’t feel that grasp I have on my surroundings when I’m connected, so I must not be, but I push that to the side to think about my childhood. My head is racing, and I am ambling through the empty kitchen, wondering where it all went wrong, because when did I stop believing that I was a kid? When did I start thinking that as soon as I knew what she had done, I could be young no more? A tear beads at my eye and I suddenly feel very aware that there are cold pearls slipping down my cheeks, and I am still in the kitchen. I can almost feel her gaze on me while I am in the kitchen. I know she’s not there, but I feel her eyes in the kitchen. They’re everywhere. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I suddenly feel very anxious, as if my father would be coming home soon, and so I start putting the dishes away, because that’s all I know to do when I feel anxious. I feel like someone is coming. I try to be firm but my hand takes hold of a glass and lifts it so gently that I felt I wasn’t in control of it, that it’s so delicate it reminded me of my state of repose I enter when truly livid. I felt for a moment I could, but then wondered for what, and the floorboards behind me creaked as soon as the question entered my mind; and I knew. I whipped around with the abrupt and arthritic movements I had grown used to falling into when around her, but when my hair cleared from my eyes I realized I was not in the same place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I dropped the glass when the walls around me started looking far too much like concrete and insulin. It smashed on the ground below, but I could hardly register it. Every sense in my body diminished to give my eyes the center stage. The room was halfway between becoming the basement and remaining the kitchen, and I thought </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, how poetic it would be if it were my own thoughts driving the change?</span>
  </em>
  <span> But I must be dreaming. I must be dreaming, because you are nowhere to be found, and there is nothing outside of this room; it’s only empty. I can hear her huff out a laugh from down the hall and I push my foot down into the glass beneath as I realize that this must be a nightmare. I feel like I’m waiting for her to come, and so I am comfortably fixated on the space in front of me, but after a few moments of silence, I tear my gaze away and look down at my foot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is blood everywhere. My veins are split open and the floor is doused in crimson, and when the disgust subsides I remember something I’d once read about our veins being filled with iron like stardust, so I huff too. There’s stardust spilling on the floor around me and I can feel everything. She’s yelling downstairs now, I recognize from the muffled timbre. But somehow now, I don’t feel anxious. Is it because she doesn’t have stardust as I do? I don’t know, so I drift. My thoughts find their way back to the beginning, where I’d wondered about my own innocence. I try having a conversation with myself about it, but it’s awkward. You’re not here, and it feels wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I didn’t have you in my youth. You only started to come when claret dribbled down my milky calves day after day in the previous spring. You’d just never left. I’m here in what I think is turning back to the kitchen, and I’m thinking that I would be simultaneously at peace and dead to the world without you. You terrify me. You leave me heaving and sobbing sometimes, with my hands pulling at my hair when you’re unfair to me. It’s those times when you won’t let me calm down, and only want to have the hard conversations, yelling at me until I think I’m so overwhelmed I could die. You make me second-guess myself, and then again. And again. But there are times from before, at the world’s edge, and times every day now, too, where you are there. And you listen. You hold me in such a warming way that I forget how to be scared of touch, and you let me talk all day. You go on about nonsense from our elementary days and let me feel safe, feel happy, and you let me cry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I snap back to reality at that and my thoughts manifest into wetness on my cheeks, and when one rolls over my mouth I try to joke and tell you it tastes like the beach we almost drowned at in Hawaii. You still don’t come out. I’m feeling dizzy, now. I decide to sit down. I don’t hear her anymore. The blood is warm to the touch and still, I am trying to tell you about what I am seeing, to no avail. I decide to stop trying and instead just sit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I am leant against the narrow pantry and for a moment I think about how it feels like I’m back against your closet, pulling harrowing memories out of you and laying them out as I did your medical documents. Thinking back on it, there were timestamps on those. I lift my head to eye the clock across from me, only to find it had moved. It was mounted where a painting of wine bottles my mom found pretty used to be, and when I’ve squinted enough for everything to focus, I catch that it’s 05:17. I'd thought that sounded familiar.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I said before this would either be super dark or very peaceful so please trust me to never keep my word</p></blockquote></div></div>
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